A convulsive shudder shook Lianor's slender frame as she gazed on
those handsome features set in death's awful calm; the closed eyes,
which would never look into her own again; the cold lips which would
never breathe loving words into her ear, or press her brow in fond
affection.

She could not weep, as Savitre wept; tears refused to ease the burning
pain at her heart. Only a low moan broke from her as she threw herself
suddenly over that loved body.

"My love--my darling! Why did I ever let you leave me? How can I live
without you?"

"Hush, Lianor! Come, you can do nothing here. But one thing I promise
you, I will avenge his death at any cost! The murderer will be found
and punished--no matter who it is!" Diniz cried, earnestly.

"Thank you; and if I can aid, rely on my help," Lianor murmured,
bravely.

Then, bending reverently to press a last kiss on the pallid brow, she
allowed Diniz to lead her from the room to her own home.

In the hall they were met by Don Garcia, in a terrible state of
anxiety for his daughter.

"Where have you been, Lianor? What is the matter? You look ill! And
what is that?" pointing to a vivid red stain which marred the white
purity of her dress.